


The Art Thieves

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Mentions of drugs, a lot of talk about fate, and the devil, basically they're all going through some shit, completely self indulgent, set in chicago, wey hey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:51:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>autumn could possibly be one of zayn’s favorite seasons. he loves the subtle beauty of the season, the slow change of leaves from green to reds and oranges and fading browns, ready to fall and make scratching noises as they move across the pavement.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>but there’s always that thing, that one thing, that holds him back, keeps him curled into himself with a wall of mistrust and expectancy of disappointment, and every autumn a new brick has seemed to be added to the ever-growing wall.</em>
</p>
<p>Or the one in which they all have issues, Eleanor is a disparaging (but wonderful) person, and all problems would be solved if everyone just <em>kissed</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art Thieves

**Author's Note:**

> This is a completely self-indulgent chaptered fic; a complete excuse for some hurt/comfort between all of the boys. Also, short first chapter is short, and really just a prologue that has no premise of a real plot.
> 
> Disclaimers: I, of course, do not own any of the people in this fic. Fiction is fiction. Also, not beta-read.

autumn could possibly be one of zayn’s favorite seasons. he loves the subtle beauty of the season, the slow change of leaves from green to reds and oranges and fading browns, ready to fall and make scratching noises as they move across the pavement. he loves how the harsh weather bites at the fingertips exposed through his worn gloves only to be warmed by the steam of a hot cup of coffee (or tea or hot chocolate). and he loves how the almost-too-sudden snowfall brightens the seemingly somber sky, a natural dim light that gives him an excuse to hide away in his tiny room, locked in with a book and a hot beverage (headphones halfway slipped onto his head).

but-

but there’s always that thing, that one thing, that holds him back, keeps him curled into himself with a wall of mistrust and expectancy of disappointment, and every autumn a new brick has seemed to be added to the ever-growing wall.

that one thing that has zayn speaking in cryptic messages, that one thing that has people responding with _i don’t understand but you’ll be okay_ and _you’re broken and i’m sorry_. and maybe sometimes people don’t even respond with words, their faces schooled into something as enigmatic as zayn’s words, faces that have nothing written on them but the word _pity_ (they say that a picture is worth a thousand words; zayn wonders if it’s the same for faces). zayn can’t decide which is worst.

“i reckon i’ve met the devil before,” zayn says to louis one day, completely unprovoked. they’ve been sitting on the tiny balcony of louis’ apartment (unwillingly for louis; he’d been dragged from the warm comfort of his bed to sit on the soggy ground of the balcony) wrapped in silence and the world’s supply of blankets. louis is used to zayn’s arbitrary moments of talking. maybe he’s not quite sure what zayn is talking about sometimes but for the most part, he can easily follow along.

“more than once i think.” he’s got that look on his face, the look that louis now associates with _be prepared to keep up with my cryptic bullshit._

“hm. is that so?” 

“yeah,” zayn says easily. “s’funny though. my mom used to tell me stories of him all the time, the devil i mean. she’d paint this picture of him- red and evil, pointy horns and a malicious laugh, a pitchfork that he used to pick his victims. used to scare the shit out of me. but then i met the devil for myself. he wasn’t red or evil, didn’t have pointed horns and a malicious laugh, didn’t carry around a pitchfork, or at least not physically.”

“oh?” louis doesn’t bother to contribute, they’ve passed the point of being polite and responding into territory of just listening and understanding. 

zayn only makes a sound of confirmation, and he knows that louis knows him well enough that he won’t push for zayn to continue, that zayn’ll wait until some ungodly hour in the still-night-but-possibly-morning times and call him to finish the one sided conversation. and knowing that, well it makes zayn feel safe and secure. nevertheless, he changes the subject. “how are the girls?” and louis’ eyes brighten up at that, a shift in his entire posture.

\---------

like he expected, louis gets a call during the hidden ours of the night (or morning, louis still doesn’t understand that, it confuses him and it’s too early, late?, for him to try to figure it out) from zayn. he blindly reaches for the source of his imminent destruction, swearing as wills his ringtone to just be that much quieter. he looks blearily at the bright screen, a picture of zayn flipping off in the middle of physics, lovingly of course, with a treacherous (how very treacherous, louis thinks) smile on his face. 

“louis?”

“unless you’re bleeding profusely from your open heart, louis isn’t here but requests that you call at a more acceptable time. thank you for cooperating.”

“louis.” zayn’s voice is a bit more pleading this time and if louis listens hard enough (he does, there isn’t a time where he won’t and louis dismisses it at him being a good friend), he can hear the way zayn’s voice cracks on the second syllable of his name. and from the two seconds of speaking that zayn has done, louis can tell that he’s been crying all night, can practically see his brown eyes brimmed with tears and stained red. 

“oh, babe. d’you wanna talk about it?”

“No.” neither of the boys bring up the conversation about zayn meeting the devil, maybe they’ll save that for another day, but just like on the balcony, they sit in a comfortable silence, zayn giving the occasional sniffle, louis giving the occasional ‘are ya sleep?’ 

it’s not very conventional but it’s fine for now and that’s what louis tells himself before he whispers a faint ‘g’night, zayn.’

**Author's Note:**

> So, should i continue? kudos? comments? if you like that is.


End file.
